


Riptide

by Glitteringworlds



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Basim is pulling strings but I promise I like him, Canon-Typical Violence, Characters Making Mistakes, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, Infidelity, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Trauma, Redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29509182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitteringworlds/pseuds/Glitteringworlds
Summary: With the Saga Stone still out of reach, Sigurd follows through on his deal with Aelfred. Effectively exiled to Wessex, Eivor struggles to find a new path, while Randvi searches for a way to bring her home. An off-balance clash with the Order, however, threatens to drown them all.
Relationships: Eivor/Randvi (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

Eivor wasn’t sure when she had started hoping for Sigurd to fail. It was small, at first, a prodding voice she could ignore, or brush away. _Maybe he will have to hunt down supplies himself, once he realizes how precarious it is to be in this new land without any._

_Maybe it would be better if Ivarr did ruin this for us - maybe it would make Sigurd more careful about what alliances he chooses._

_Maybe if he cannot secure this victory, he will return home and stop Dag from nagging at me so much._

Or, more recently, _maybe he won’t make it home before the rain, he will have to stay away another day. Or just another few hours._

It wasn’t that she did not miss him - she did, terribly, as a bird without winter would miss flying south. But still the thoughts ate at her. In Ledecestrescire, in his brief visits home, and again, once again, in Oxenefordscire. 

She couldn’t tell if it was better, or much worse, to actually agree with those thoughts for once. Whatever it was he sought here - him, Basim, Fulke, the rotten lot of them - could be tossed into the pitch-black depths of the ocean for all Eivor cared. It was not why they were there. 

Her white-hot anger flared again and again as they prepared for the raid on Cyne Belle, and every time she pushed it back down. Sigurd couldn’t be right about her, not now. His words had been spoken in anger, and she’d forgive him for that in time. But she wouldn’t prove him right. 

Eyelids flickering, Eivor once again tried to settle the tumult. When the rhythm of breath evaded her, she focused on the touch of her hands against stiff leather. And when her mind drifted off to the memory of warmer, softer touches, she turned instead to the sounds of preparation around her. The laughter of honey-drunk men and women who might be dead by the next sunset. The soft click of another arrow added to the pile, each one checked over with a careful eye. The crash of steel on steel as those too eager for drink clashed against each other in anticipation. 

This, of course, brought the anger surging back. That Sigurd would seek to lead them into battle for a glory of his own imagining. That he would just as easily sell them to Eadwyn for that same delusion. That he had asked Eivor to follow him in that betrayal without a word as to why. That he had asked for her trust without giving his own, and that she had already betrayed that trust before she even set foot in Oxenefordscire because Randvi had looked at her with a steady gaze and spoken what they both had already known to be true, and —

When Basim’s voice startled Eivor from her unhappy thoughts, she was almost happy for it. Almost.

“Eivor,” he began, carefully, as measured as always, “may I have a word?”

Eivor made him wait, holding herself still and taking the long seconds to steady her breathing again. It came easier this time, perhaps because she knew he was left to stew with his thoughts while she did.

Eventually, she opened her eyes. Dawn had apparently crept over the hills while she wound her thoughts into knots, and Basim had positioned himself between her and the first light of the sun. His silhouette was placid, unmoving — patient in a way that seemed as if it must be an intentional attempt to irritate her. “Yes, Basim?”

“Your brother asked me to speak with you. To remind you of what is at stake today. And to whom you are honor-bound above all others.” His tone was even, as even as it had been the last time he had sought to put her in her place. This time, she would not rise to meet him with anger.

“Is that so, Basim? And he does not see fit to tell this to me himself? Are you his messenger bird now, as well as his prophet?”

A slight incline of the head, though Eivor could not see his face well enough to tell if it was out of amusement or interest. “Do not forget that I have fought by your brother’s side as well, Eivor, when you and the rest of his people were an ocean away. I have proven my loyalty. I only want to remind you of yours.”

“For my own sake? Or Sigurd’s?”

“Both,” he replied, “neither. Sigurd only asked me to remind you what we are looking for. Though routing Eadwyn serves everyone here, the stone is our true priority.”

“And if I do find it? Do I need to pass word to my brother through you? Or should I tell Fulke first, so that she may deliver a sermon to us?”

Basim laughed at Fulke’s name. “You do not need to concern yourself with her. Find me, or find your brother. He will know what to do from there.”

“And what exactly is it he will do?”

A nod from Basim, and Eivor swore she could make out the trace of a smile. “If he has not seen fit to tell you, then I certainly will not.”

* * *

They did not find the stone. The raid on the keep itself had been a long, rainy, dismal affair. Eivor’s earlier infiltrations had helped to keep casualties to a minimum, but the space between each step seemed to last a week, as they were made to fight hard for every inch. And to dig in their heels with each gain, because Eadwyn commanded her people forward with the ecstatic fury of a woman trying to fight back the tide.

So when the call came that Aelfred’s army had been spotted in the distance, Eivor could do little more than narrow her eyes and finish off the flask of water she had been gulping down. 

Sigurd, across the room from her, threw out his arms. “Do we have the forces to meet him before he reaches the walls? We must keep the little King away from this place a while longer.”

Geadric blanched, his face tightening at the suggestion. “Are you joking with me, Sigurd? I’m not even sure if we will be able to make it out of here alive, at this rate! He will be on us within the hour.”

Replacing the lid on her flask, Eivor kept herself still, her eyes moving between Sigurd and Geadric, and then darting to Basim, who lingered just out of clear view. Sigurd, to his credit, did not leap to anger. He burned cold, collected himself, and inclined his head slightly towards Basim.

“The stone. It must be near, mustn’t it?”

Basim placed two fingers against pursed lips, studying the empty air in front of him. “That Eadwyn woman certainly didn’t know what it was she had taken. But she was smarter than to discard something that still might have been used as leverage.”

“So we will continue our search. You are right, Basim. I can feel that it is here. It sings to me.” His eyes were as distant as Basim’s. For a moment, Eivor wondered if they really did both hear the same song. A song of false promise, and honor that would certainly turn sour in their mouths, turn rotten. How was a stone to speak louder than the clash of battle? How was it going to tell him a truth more certain than the path they had already begun to carve into England? Sigurd had always known his own worth - his potential. She had set a course by it, had built a home on it. The entire clan had. She couldn’t build her home on empty words and a rock.

After a long pause, Sigurd turned back to Geadric, his expression set fast. “Let us call for a parley, then. I will meet with this King of Wessex. And while I speak to him, Basim will find our prize here.”

At this, Eivor finally spoke. “Sigurd, we should not leave anyone behind here. If Aelfred does choose to attack, Basim can hardly hold the keep by himself.”

Basim chuckled. “I can take care of myself, Wolf-Kissed, though your concern is touching.” Eyes flickering over to Eivor, he touched Sigurd’s shoulder just long enough to turn his ear. His next words were too quiet to make out. They were for Sigurd, and Sigurd alone. Eivor almost moved to cut in between them, but Geadric interrupted before she could.

“Fine then. I will see that the message gets to Aelfred. But Eivor is right, we can’t stay behind here while you meet. I’m telling my people to retreat while we have the chance.”

“Fine.” Sigurd waved him off. “I do not need you for this. But when the time comes…”

“I’ll answer your call, of course. I already gave my word to Eivor. I will fight with you and your clan.”

If a shadow passed over Sigurd’s face at Eivor’s name, he was quick to let it slip away. 

Eivor sighed, feeling a charge building in the air. There was the bitter taste of a storm on her lips, and nothing to do but ride it out. Running her thumb along the edge of her axe, Eivor tucked it firmly away in her belt, and took a few steps towards Sigurd to fall in beside him. “And Fulke? Where has she gone?”

“We do not need to worry about her, Eivor.” As if her closeness had pushed away some of the clouds hanging between them, his expression eased for a moment, sharp and bright. “You will see soon enough.”

* * *

Aelfred was a small man, and he sat all in shadows, slumped low in his throne. He regarded Sigurd with the same attention he paid the dirt at his feet or the soldier in the corner, gaze falling listlessly around the room without enough care to linger on any one person for more than a moment. Whether he was always so inattentive in his rule, or simply didn’t find Sigurd worth the effort, Eivor didn’t know. Either way, his assessment was wrong.

Eivor was fairly certain she could kill Aelfred in this tent, if she had to. It would have been easier with Basim there, perhaps, but she could do it. She couldn’t guarantee Sigurd’s safety if she did that, of course. Besides, he had his own plans. But as Eivor drew herself up next to Sigurd, she only hoped that Aelfred had at least as much sense as the deer that, hearing wolves in the hills, knows better than to linger long.

“You move swiftly to see to lands far beyond your home, King Aelfred,” Sigurd began, hands crossed before him and head unbowed. “Yet it seems that the people here are not thrilled by the honor.”

“The people of England do not always know what is best for them.” Aelfred’s hand waved a lazy dismissal. “Yet even here I do think they know better than to wish for a Dane on their throne.”

“Perhaps you should leave them to decide that for themselves, rather than coming to dote on them so readily. You are like a hen still trying to feed chicks long after they have grown.” Even with his face half in shadow, Eivor could see that Aelfred wasn’t going to rise to Sigurd’s bait. Sigurd carried on regardless. “Mercia knows a true leader when they see one.”

“You would mock me as an old hen, yet here I see foxes crawling through the coop and all my chickens dead. I do not intend to leave any part of England to hungry pagans who pretend that clouds are gods and burning a village to the ground makes them fit to rule it.”

Sigurd was stone, and Eivor felt equal parts pride and fury at his steadiness. The weight of him in front of her slowed the surge of her anger, but it was still ringing in her ears as he spoke.

“I offer an exchange, then, and then we can both leave here without spilling blood. My best warrior for yours. A show of good faith. After which, you leave Mercia, and we fall back north of the Ouse.”

A skilled skald, should his song be interrupted by drunken raving or the pitching waves, never hesitated when picking up the verse. They knew well that no commotion could halt the thrill of a song or the weight of a story, if its teller kept a steady hand. No, only silence could kill a song, and silence worked swiftly as an arrow singing towards its fated home.

In the moment Sigurd offered up his promise, Eivor felt herself, briefly, left with nothing but a deep and pressing silence ringing in her ears.

“These terms are fair. Wulfric!”

On the day that Randvi had come to Fornberg, Eivor had wondered whether she was a small woman, or a woman who knew how to make herself small. Valka was a woman who knew how to make herself quiet, and Gunnar a man who knew how to make himself content. Eivor couldn’t make herself something she wasn’t, like they could, but she thought she knew something of the look of it. Randvi did not seem like a small woman. It was strange, how sometimes what the Fates needed of someone was not who they were, but what they could make themself. It didn’t matter what Randvi was and what she pretended to be - peace came to Fornberg that spring just the same.

The large man Aelfred had gestured to lumbered forward with a nod to his king, making no remark as he positioned himself on the other side of the room. Eivor wondered if he had a family in Wessex.

Looking back to Aelfred, Eivor noticed that though he leaned back in his seat, arms thrown wide, his eyes were fixed on her. 

Sigurd turned, a wave breaking against the rocks. As it must. The sound of it roared in Eivor’s ears, as if she was still home in Norway, as if they had never left. Some detached part of her wondered, numbly, if the rocks forgave the ocean for wearing them smooth, just because it had no other choice.

“Eivor will accompany you in turn. She is a steadfast fighter, and will serve you well until the time comes that we speak again. Have no doubt, lord, we will be meeting on different terms next time.”

“Is that so?” Aelfred didn’t wait for a response. Shifting his gaze from Eivor, he signaled to another of his men. “Escort our Norse friend from this place. Give them… an hour to be gone from the keep. And if any of my men find you south of the Ouse after sunrise tomorrow, you can consider this offer revoked.” He paused a moment, some semblance of decorum washing over him as he sat a little straighter. “Go with God. If he’ll have you.”

“Sigurd.” Eivor’s voice broke from her throat, hoarse and quiet. “Do you really mean to —”

A single raised hand from Sigurd halted her protests, in part because she hadn’t known how to speak them anyway. She hadn’t, but her thoughts did, like an undertow tugging at her ankles. _This is no man to follow,_ they said, in a voice far softer and calmer than her own had been. _You are no offering for him to toss on the pyre. You should meet him with flame for even trying._

Another voice, richer by far and tangled with the memory of autumn breeze and the scent of wet fur, touched her thoughts too. It breathed aching warmth into Eivor’s lungs. Perhaps it had been a dream in truth, perched on that tower from another world, so far from their own, Randvi’s presence more than just warm touch, more than just kind words. It came to her now. The heart, indeed, does not do politics like the head.

 _Fire is not an axe to wield against those who would hurt me,_ Eivor spoke to the empty mist of her mind. _Fire can rage long after we would have it stop. I will not light the spark that consumes my home. Not here. Not today._

And just as quickly as the current had overtaken her, it was gone. Sigurd stood firm, one hand raised before her, skin pulled tight against his knuckles. He did not look at her as he spoke, his voice not quite low enough ensure that Aelfred couldn’t hear it. “It will hardly be forever, Eivor. Our destiny is to make England kneel before us, is it not? Learn what you can about this little lord. You will be back in Ravensthorpe before the year is out.”

“Yes, Sigurd,” Eivor replied, taking a single step out from him. “Of course.” She moved forward with her head held high, walking into the shadows at Aelfred’s side without a glance back.


	2. Chapter 2

“Must that infernal thing follow us _all_ the way back to Wincestre?”

Four days’ march from the parley at Cyne Belle Castle, tired and heart-sore and weighed down with more questions than she knew how to make sense of, Eivor smiled. Synin wheeled once more overhead, coarse voice rattling around them like a peal of laughter. “You mean to say you do not like his song, my lord?”

If the Aelfred of four days ago had been a cold, unflappable sort, unbothered by Sigurd’s jibes, it seemed the Aelfred of the road home did not share his patience. Perched on a horse as he was, Aelfred’s face was impossible to see clearly from where Eivor marched beside him. She could, however, make out his half-hearted attempts to swat at a fly buzzing by his ear. “I would sooner call you a Christian than that creature’s retching a song. Surely you can send it away. I am sure it has rodents to eat whole back home, or something like that.”

“It is cats that take care of our rodents, lord. Ravens eat the guts of our enemies, once we’ve done the work of parting the skin for them.”

Aelfred’s voice was a dripping, oozing thing. “How _wonderful_.”

It was a new, unhappy pleasure that Eivor had found amidst the Saxon army, turning herself into every worst assumption she could grab ahold of. To the young men, still flush and humming with righteousness, she became the Corpse Eater, the Ritualistic Murderer, the enemy carved of blood and bone and battle-lust. To the older soldiers, wearier and longing for home, she became the Usurper, the Rightful Lord, the monster who ended their lives not with a sword but with a crown. The architect of an uneasy peace not so different than the one they fought to protect from her. The preachers were the best though, the believers in her salvation. Those she held close to her with sweet words and gentle refusal, like fish that saw the hook and chose to nibble at it anyway. 

It was not kind. But it fed something deep and ever so hungry inside her chest, and kept it from beating itself against her ribs, for a time.

Aelfred, at least, she felt no guilt over taunting. The rest of the men here fought for someone else. Aelfred led for himself. And he must have known what he was doing, insulting her bird, complaining about her refusal to join the army in prayer before they ate, musing about the affairs of her people. It was less like a game, with Aelfred, and more like a dance - though not one he seemed to enjoy, despite being the one to strike up a tune each time.

“I don’t see how you can speak of the thing with any fondness,” he said, some time later. The sun was past its highest point, but not low enough on the horizon to signal relief any time soon. “I’m sure it will be just as happy to eat your innards someday as anyone else’s.”

Eivor clenched her jaw, wondering if Aelfred ever grew tired of his own voice. “Ravens are smarter than you give them credit for, my lord. They know who their friends are. And their enemies.” 

The last words were pointed enough, spoken with a force and bitterness that Eivor couldn’t keep out of her voice, that even Aelfred couldn’t fail to respond. “You speak of me, I imagine? Odd, as I don’t believe _I_ was the one who compelled you to be here.”

Familiar numbness crept down Eivor’s back as she emptied her head of fire. This was her other weapon against the hungry thing in her chest. One hand moved involuntarily to the scar on her neck, feeling the smooth bumps and dips of the skin there. Old violence, long healed but still carved into her. Sigurd’s eyes never lingered on her scar, like other people’s did. He knew what it was to her. What that night was to her. “I am smarter than you give me credit for, too. The man who holds a knife to my throat while he asks me for my silver is no more my friend than the man who simply stabs me and takes it.”

“Ah, but that first man may leave you with your life, if not your wealth.”

“Then he should sleep with one eye open, because I am not prone to treat thieves with gratitude.”

Aelfred cleared his throat. “I hope I do not need to remind you that one move against me here would not just end with _you_ dead in the mud. I doubt the collection of huts on the river that you call a settlement could stand long against an army.”

Eivor laughed, once, a cheerless chuckle. “Do you regret the deal you struck with my Jarl so soon?”

“That,” he said, after a moment, “still remains to be seen.” 

_Let him have his cryptic mutterings,_ _then_. Eivor pulled the silence around herself like a blanket, letting the conversation fall away and sinking into the quiet comfort of far away memories. 

* * *

It didn’t take long for Eivor to get the distinct impression that Wincestre didn’t know what to do about her. Aelfred had made himself busy immediately upon entering the city, and had ordered one of his men to make sure she was “seen to,” whatever that meant. She had a cold room to sleep in, a bed, and one narrow stained glass window set high into the western wall. It was not a prison, insofar as the door didn’t lock from the outside. She was not exactly a welcomed guest, however.

Her room was in the far corner on the outskirts of a church, one of several that punctuated the squabbling mass of Wincestre. It was not as cramped or dingy a city as Lundon had been, but all that did for Eivor was make her feel less at home. Lundon was not pretty, but it felt rich with the painful mess of people aching to live. Building lives out of mud and wood and fish and barrels and any spare piece of justice that Erke and Stowe had to mete out to the too-many that needed it.

Wincestre, in contrast, felt bloated with proclamations of its own worthiness. All those churches, all those soldiers clattering around all those streets outside her pathetic excuse for a window. In the week she had been there, Eivor hadn’t seen all those soldiers actually do anything, but they certainly were there. They wanted her to know it, too. She wasn’t technically permitted outside the grounds of the Old Minster, but even inside she could feel eyes on her. If she was to be generous, Eivor could understand why a Dane pacing around their church with all the coiled tension of a prowling cat might be cause for some concern. Eivor was rarely in the mood for generosity though, lately.

In the week of empty days that had passed since her arrival in Wincestre, the only person Eivor could come close to calling a companion was an odd man by the name of Goodwin. He was a reeve of the city, though it didn’t take Eivor long to determine that he had none of the openness of Stowe when it came to dealing with pagans. He even offered to convert her, barely a breath after offering his name. Still, other than the occasional curious child, he was the only person willing to share a conversation with her longer than what was strictly necessary.

Though Eivor had begun to wonder if it _was_ necessary, for him. He certainly wasn’t joining her out of the pleasure of her company or the kindness of his heart. Yet he was forthright enough with his opinions, and made no effort to convince her to open up to him. More often, he would find her in the corner of a room, sometime after sunset, and make himself known simply by settling in across the table from her, with his own cup of mead. Sometimes he’d talk about the weather, how it was apparently unseasonably dry for this late in the year. Sometimes he wouldn’t say anything at all. Still, it wasn’t good to drink alone. Even amidst her brooding, Eivor appreciated his presence, even while she knew he wasn’t really there for her.

It was a week and a day after her arrival in the city that his conversation finally took a turn towards something she could begin to make sense of. It had been a grey, rainy day, the kind that made the air hang oppressively thick around her. Goodwin had actually come to find her a little after midday. Eivor had spotted him talking with one of their priests, rain still running off the back of his cloak and puddling on the stone floor. He had waved when he spotted her, jogging over to the bench where she sat, cleaning her bow for the 10th time since she’d arrived in Wincestre.

“Ah, Eivor. I was looking for you.”

“That was easy enough to see.” Eivor made no move to put away her weapon, nor to make room for him next to her. Goodwin was the closest thing she had to a friend here, yes, but even a cat knew the difference between home and shelter from the rain.

“You spent some time in Lundon recently, did you not?” 

Looking down at her work, Eivor tried to keep her face blank. “Lundon does not have anything to offer to someone like me.” She moved the cleaning cloth along the curve of the bow with steady, rhythmic motions, trying to guess at what exactly Goodwin was trying to find out. Though it had not yet even been two months since her time there, her memories of the city felt foggy and hard to hold on to.

“For a Dane, maybe not. But this is not necessarily about your people’s ambitions.”

Though she didn’t respond, Eivor did take a moment to look back up at Goodwin. His lips were pursed in obvious irritation, and he frowned down at her as if… the only way she could describe his look was that it was of offense taken, though how she had so offended him she didn’t know. She hadn’t once given a straight answer to any of his occasional questions, so why would she start now? Something had changed about him, in his bearing and the anxious way he drummed his fingers on his arm. So this was why he had been seeking her out this past week. Whatever it was.

Shrugging her shoulders, Eivor once again went back to her work. “My people’s ambitions are my own, Goodwin. If you think we have secret plans to burn Lundon to the ground, then I have nothing to add to your gossip.”

“Lundon already _did_ burn, Eivor.”

Ah, so he knew about that, did he? “Then I imagine you should be looking for the person who did that, no?”

Goodwin sighed in irritation. Out of the corner of her eye, Eivor saw him take a step closer to her, leaning in. His hands were nowhere near his sword, but her grip on the bow tightened nonetheless. Not that it would do her much good here. They had not stripped her of her weapons, but it was almost more insulting than if they had. She might be able to make it out of the city, if she chose bloodshed, but it would not be an easy thing.

Fortunately, Goodwin made no move to fight. He instead set a single, folded piece of parchment next to her on the bench, tapping it once as he pulled away. “Read it. I think you’ll recognize the contents. And then, if you’re half the woman they make you out to be, you’ll meet us tonight on the second floor. I’ll make sure you aren’t watched after sunset.”

“We?”

Goodwin turned, but not before Eivor caught the hint of a smirk cut across his face. He left without responding, and Eivor eyed the parchment next to her. She finished her work with deliberate, frustrating steadiness. Her hands itched to grab at answers, but she held herself back. Knowledge came at a price, and she would not let curiosity be her master. She finished cleaning the bow, wound and rewound the strings she carried with her, and counted out her arrows, double-checking that none of the fletching had been bent or broken. After carefully stowing it all away, she cast her eyes out to the room around her. Only once she was satisfied that Goodwin wasn’t lurking somewhere watching her did she reach over to pick up his gift.

Unfortunately, she did recognize the contents. Not just the contents, she recognized the name at the end, too. Or rather, the lack of one. Another missive from the self-identified “Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ.” 

She immediately found herself wishing for Hytham’s counsel. What did it mean, that a reeve of Wincestre now came to her with the same warning that she had found in Lundon, written under the same strange name? Who was Goodwin’s “us” - members of the Order? The Hidden Ones? That, at least, she could dismiss easily enough. He wasn’t missing any fingers, and Goodwin didn’t strike Eivor as the type to leave things half-finished.

 _So tell me, friend,_ Eivor whispered to the shadow of Hytham in her head. _Am I walking into the jaws of my enemy? Or have I come under the protection of a friend?_ To her surprise, his voice came to her. _It is a gift you give yourself. Embrace the hope that death will not come before you are prepared to meet it._

Refolding the paper, Eivor sighed. Even as nothing more than the whisper of a memory in her head, he managed to have such unflinching faith that she couldn’t help but respect it. It would be a leap of faith, then. She would see what it was that this strange and irritable reeve of Wincestre had for her. It couldn’t be worse than spending another night pacing around the house of an unfamiliar god.

* * *

The Minster was quiet in the evenings, after its work came to a close and visitors left their prayer behind to return to their own homes and hot meals. It was not empty, but the new stillness was enough for Eivor’s footsteps to echo down the hallways. Goodwin was true to his word, at least. She was not watched.

Goodwin himself was waiting for her in the main hallway of the second floor, leaning against a wall and fiddling with the bracer on his left arm. Eivor made no effort to hide herself as she drew close, but he didn’t look up until she was only a few steps away. He liked to be in control. That was fine. She could work with that.

“Reeve Goodwin. Here I am, just as you asked.” Eivor spread her arms, turning to look about her. “Where are your friends?”

He managed to huff out an unamused laugh, pushing up to his feet. “Follow me, Eivor. And there is just one man you are meeting tonight. Treat him with the respect he is due.”

That raised her eyebrows. A single man, and one she owed respect to? Well, the letter in Lundon had been addressed directly to Tryggr. Despite herself, Eivor couldn’t help but let a grin twitch at the corner of her mouth. So much fuss, for someone she had been marching through muck alongside mere days ago. Wincestre’s King certainly did like to keep himself in the shadows.

Goodwin led her forward into what seemed to be something of a library, a small room divided in half by a high shelf of scrolls. It appeared to be empty as she stepped inside, and Eivor’s cooler head lost its brief scuffle with the petulant desire to maintain the upper hand.

“Lord Aelfred,” she intoned, in something between a whisper and respectful hush. “You need not hide yourself from me. Surely I couldn’t strike you down in front of your man of law, let alone the eyes of your Christ.”

She could see Goodwin tense beside her, but Aelfred himself just let out a chuckle as he stepped out. “I see that a week in our city has not dulled your crude sense of humor.”

“Quite the opposite. The only way I make it through these days is by reminding myself how funny your corpses will look some day.”

Goodwin actually did reach for his sword at that, though Aelfred was quick to hold up a hand and bid him halt. Reaching into her satchel, Eivor tossed the folded parchment on the desk next to Aelfred. “So, a nameless somebody has written to tell you that people want your head. Why share that with me? Last I knew, I was still on the list of people who want your head, myself.”

“You can continue to bicker, Eivor, or you can acknowledge what we both already know.” Aelfred inclined his head towards the letter. “I have heard accounts of the murder of the governor of Lundon, and the very peculiar assassinations that followed it. If one didn’t know better, one might think that those deaths were the work of the same cruel-minded individual that killed Tryggr. A brilliant doctor? A protector of the city? It caused quite a stir.”

“I take it you think you know better, then?”

“I know enough.” Eyebrows pinching together, Aelfred chose to let some piece of exhaustion show on his face. “And I know enough of this Order to take this threat seriously.”

It wasn’t hard to see what Aelfred was driving towards, but Eivor wasn’t quite sure what to do with that. She had chosen to believe Hytham, when he had told her of the horrors the Order could bring upon England. The quiet, ugly, creeping kind. The kind that hurt and killed and gorged themselves and called it a necessary sacrifice. And she had seen some of those horrors herself, now. The Order were not exceptionally cruel people — Eivor had seen cruelty many times, and it didn’t need the trappings of a cause to grow. But a cause like this one, a justification buried so deeply, could not just be cut down. It needed to be torn up by the roots.

For her people, Eivor had been willing to become a soldier for Hytham’s cause. But for Aelfred? She wasn’t as sure.

“Even if we do share an enemy, Lord, that does not make us friends.”

He cocked his head at her. “Does it not? I was under the impression that was the way these things worked. Well, then.” He paused, for a moment, seeming to contemplate something. His eyes didn’t move from Eivor’s face. “I can still work within those terms. If you rout out these people - if you can promise me the threat on my life is taken care of - I will give you leave to return to your people. North of the Ouse, if they have managed to keep to their word still.”

“I do not want your false promises, King of Wessex.” Eivor spoke low and fast, trying to keep the tightness in her throat out of her words. “What proof do I have, what guarantee, that you would keep to your word? Do you expect me to believe this one man would keep you honest?” She gestured to Goodwin, shaking her head. “Do not play with me.”

Some of the meandering was gone from Aelfred’s voice when he spoke next. “I am not a fool, Eivor Wolf-Kissed. You are as much a liability to me here as you are a token gesture of peace. I do not believe for a second that your Jarl will stay out of my way just because you are here. Nor do I believe you are a docile pup who will merely wait around sulking at your lot. So what am I left with? I could have you executed, or take your weapons and lock you up. Hope that you stay put, or stay dead.” Taking a step closer, Aelfred reached a hand out to the letter Eivor had thrown aside. “Or I could use a weapon as it ought to be used. To take care of a problem.”

The rush of the fall was knowing it would have to end, somehow. The faith was in the leaping, but the falling was empty, and hopeless, and exhilarating. Here she was, trying to shape the ground underneath her as she fell. The shadow of doubt, Hytham had called it. Was she so easy to read? 

At least this time, she had a choice.

“Alright. I will do this for you. I will purge the Order from Wincestre. And once I have, I will set this place behind me, whether you decide to let me go or not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, commented, and left kudos! I wanted to give a special shout-out to the people who mentioned they were eager to see Randvi's reaction... it's coming, I promise! We are back to Ravensthorpe for a bit next chapter. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed Eivor and Aelfred causing problems for each other. Aelfred is SO much fun to write, it's actually unfair.


	3. Chapter 3

A storm brewed in Sigurd’s wake the day he returned to Ravensthorpe. The commotion and bustle of a Jarl returning was the same as always, but one glance at his face told Randvi enough for her to set aside the list of petty disputes that had been waiting for him. Instead, she let him brush past her without comment, merely making a note to herself to ensure they could put together a proper feast by nightfall. Perhaps the ruckus would do to pull him out of his sour mood.

Basim had been following at her husband’s heels when they entered the longhouse, but he lingered behind as Sigurd marched his way into his and Randvi’s bedroom. Though Basim’s face was drawn and tired too, he at least spared her a sympathetic glance as he slowed to a halt at the threshold. Except it lingered longer than a glance, Randvi realized. There was something unspoken in his heavy expression that plucked at twin threads of curiosity and concern. 

Turning to Ceolbert, who was composing a letter at the edge of the room, Randvi cleared her throat. When he didn’t look up, she tried again. “Ceolbert?” 

“Hmm?” As he pulled away from his work, Ceolbert seemed surprised to realize it was no longer just himself and Ranvdi in the room. Randvi, too, forgot Basim for a moment, allowing herself a moment to linger on the twinge of fondness she felt towards her protégé. It was not a safe thing, for a future leader to be so easily caught off guard, but Randvi couldn’t find it in herself to wish it away for him. 

Ceolbert himself was clearly embarrassed, though, flushing red as he scrambled to gather up his things. “Sorry, sorry about all this Randvi. There was a letter from my father, and I was trying to… Oh, it’s not important. I’ll just, give me a moment to get my things and I’ll find somewhere else to write this.”

“Why not leave it, Ceolbert?” Randvi gave him a small smile, hoping he’d see from her face that no harm was done. “I often find the words I need hiding in the trees more easily than I find them inside my own head. And if it is urgent, we can make sure it is sent first thing in the morning.”

“Ah.” Ceolbert looked at the mess of paper half-gathered in his arms, and then at the inkpot that he’d been reaching for on the table. “Yes, you know. Now that you mention it, I could use the chance to stretch my legs. I would greatly appreciate your advice with this sometime later though, Randvi.”

“Of course.”

With a hesitant wave at Basim, Ceolbert ducked out of the room, leaving a deep silence to linger behind him. Absently, Randvi began to straighten the papers he had left behind, taking care not to look too closely at them. “So, Basim,” she began, not looking back at him. “Was there something you needed me for? You and Sigurd have been gone a long time. Did things in Oxenefordscire not go well?”

“Oxenefordscire is secure, as is our alliance there. In truth, we were delayed some time after that looking for something that got… lost in the process. But that is not what I wanted to talk with you about.”

“What is it then? Do you have a lead on a new ally?”

“No. Randvi, it’s about Eivor.”

It was only as Randvi’s hands came to a halt that she realized how nervously they had been fidgeting with Ceolbert’s things. She kept her back to Basim, fingers resting on the parchment she had rescued from the far edge of the table. It was addressed to Ceolwulf, though the writing was splotchy and much crossed out. She caught the name Sciropescire, and something about his being honored by the request. “What about Eivor? Has something happened to her?”

“Not… exactly. There was a confrontation with King Aelfred of Wessex, just before we were finished with our work there. The Lady Eadwyn, wife to the late ealdorman, had called upon his aid. There was a siege, and we saw no easy way out.” Basim stopped momentarily, letting out a small sigh. “Sigurd offered an exchange of men.”

“An… exchange?” Randvi turned to face Basim slowly, letting each word settle around her like snowfall. “Sigurd gave her to the King, willingly? As, as… As a token? As a _gift_?”

Basim’s face was unreadable, poised and calm. “As a gesture of goodwill. We were to move back north of the Ouse in exchange for his withdrawal from the keep.”

The feeling building in Randvi’s chest was not a familiar one. It was so different from the rage of battle, the rush and the tempo and the burning excitement. It was calm, and cold, but as heavy as a rock punching through ice and sinking into black water. “But you did not return after that. You said you were searching for something. You said…”

“Well, our business in Oxenefordscire was always twofold, in truth. There was something of great value that Sigurd sought, which Eadwyn-”

“ _I_ _n_ Oxenefordscire? You bartered Eivor away as a supposed gesture of goodwill to a King who wishes to see us purged from England, and then proceeded to immediately break this truce to linger for… how long? Days? Weeks? What if you had been caught? Would they simply have killed her on the road and left her in a ditch? Tell me, Basim, do you think they would have at least waited until they reached Wincestre before executing her? Maybe they would have been so kind as to claim her for their god before sending her to Helheim.”

Basim gave her no answers, his eyes simply holding her gaze. Randvi wanted to punch him, for telling her this. For not saying more. But something held her back, something flicked her gaze towards the bedroom not far from them, where Sigurd almost certainly could hear every word. Sigurd, who knew. Sigurd, who loved Eivor, who had held her together in the darkest hours of her life, who had called her family when she had none. Sigurd, who Randvi knew more from Eivor’s stories than from her own marriage. Sigurd, who did not sit with Randvi in gentle silence as she worked, who did not touch her hair with tender reverence, whose warm breath she had never felt curling around her ear, but who fought with the strength of ten men, and stood steadfast for his family and his people.

Once again he had come home. But in the silence that hung between Basim and herself, he was nowhere to be found.

With careful, deliberate movements, Randvi walked to the alliance table. She pulled Eivor’s dagger from it in one quick motion, despite the trembling in her hands. No raven would sit on Oxenefordscire, over the thin cut left behind on the parchment. Let it be a scar.

Without a word, Randvi pushed past Basim and walked out of the longhouse.

* * *

It was Tove who found Randvi first, to her numb surprise. Randvi had tried not to draw attention to herself as she left the longhouse in a daze, eventually reaching the river and wandering downstream until the settlement was out of sight. But Randvi rarely left the longhouse in the middle of the day like that, much less when her husband and Jarl had just returned. She had known she would be watched.

But Tove did not ask anything from Randvi as she settled in beside her on the bank. They sat in silence for a long while, listening to the trees creak and sway in the wind. Listening to the river rush and bubble over itself, hurrying off to wherever it was that it needed to be. Flashes of silver broke the surface here at there, as fish darted off after their own important errands. 

A sensible, detached part of Randvi tried to remind her that wherever Eivor was, it was surely only temporary. Sigurd must have plans, or maybe Eivor had already slipped out of Wincestre’s greedy hands on her own. Maybe she would bring silver and stolen treasures, or news that King Aelfred would no longer bother them. Maybe she’d make all of Wessex bend the knee, and come sauntering back as if that had been the plan all along, her shoulders thrown back with pride and her face light and free of worry.

The rest of Randvi ached, in a hollow, slow sort of way, as if the space inside of her chest had grown tenfold, and her heart had suddenly been left to rattle around in this new emptiness. She wanted to cry, not for her own loneliness, but for Eivor’s. Randvi knew what it was like, to be less a person and more a promise, passed between kings. 

But Randvi had walked into that life with her eyes open. Eivor’s fate held grander things than that, it always had. Randvi had seen it so clearly for so long. And the idea that anyone would try to make Eivor small - much less her brother and Jarl - filled Randvi to the brim with an anger she had before indulged only sparingly.

The only kindness left in the world was that Tove didn’t ask her to explain any of it. She sat, and when she spoke, it was not with any hint of question or judgement in her voice. “It is a hard thing, to have to learn how to miss someone.”

Taking a shaky breath, Randvi looked over to her. Tove had picked up a twig and was tracing shapes into the mud at her feet. Nothing specific, but a formless movement of lines that pulled together and then twisted outwards. Like a breaking wave, or catching flames. “Odin himself could stand before me and I would not believe him if he told me she was dead.”

“No, no, I did not mean - but that does not mean it isn’t hard. I do not know what exactly has happened, but there is a new space in our hearts we will all have to live with. It’s… The world was one way this morning, and now it is something different.”

Randvi didn’t have words for that, so she asked something different. “So the news has spread? About Eivor?”

Tove nodded. “I noticed she wasn’t with them when they docked, but… it was Sigurd who explained things to Dag, and Dag who passed word to the rest of us.”

The laugh that cut out from Randvi was bitter and clipped, and she made no attempt to mask it. “So he will talk to Dag then, but not to me?”

“Was it not Sigurd who told you?”

Randvi shook her head. “Basim told me.”

The lines at Tove’s feet had spread as they talked, flaring out now like wings. “Perhaps he did not have the words.”

“He had the words for Dag.”

“Dag is easier, we all know that. He does not challenge Sigurd as you do. As Eivor does.”

The observation caught Randvi off guard. “Do I challenge him? I didn’t know the rest of you saw it like that.”

Tove shrugged, and, seemingly unhappy with the new additions to her work, pushed at the mud with her feet to clear a surface to a new design. “I can’t speak for everyone, but it always seemed to me that the two of you balanced him well. He was different, after Styrbjorn took Eivor in. And different again after you joined with him.”

“And now he sends Eivor away with Saxons and is different a third time over.”

It was Tove’s turn to greet Randvi’s words with silence, and so they both sat a while longer, turning new thoughts over and over until they were worn smooth as river stones. Randvi knew it was not Tove’s place to deal with these things. But Tove was here, nonetheless, trying. Maybe there was an unspoken closeness that grew when your art lived on the skin of the people around you. Maybe there was a responsibility she felt with that. Maybe the rest of them had decided that Tove, with her soft eyes and easy voice, was simply the best person to try and retrieve their Jarl’s wife from her sulking.

Maybe Tove just missed Eivor too.

With a sigh, Randvi set her hands on her thighs, preparing to stand. “I am sorry, Tove. You came here to offer me comfort, and I have returned that kindness by forcing the heaviness of my own muddled thoughts upon you. It is no way to treat a friend.

Tove’s smile was sweet as honey, nothing at all like Eivor’s crooked smirk, but wonderful in its own right. “And I would be no friend if I did not understand why you did, Randvi. This is a strange, unhappy thing that has come to us. I think we will get through it, though.” She paused a moment, pulling her legs in close to her chest. Her eyes were distant suddenly, looking past Randvi into some other place. “Life may ask more of us than we are prepared to give, but all we can do is our best.”

“True enough.” Randvi stood, quickly brushing herself off before offering her hand to Tove. “England has thrown much at us already, but we have weathered it all so far. Perhaps this will pass in a month’s time, and we will laugh about it while Eivor tells us grand tales of her adventures in Wessex.”

Randvi did not believe that, but it felt good to say. Warm, safe, a wish like a boat on the waves. It was not solid ground, but it might do to keep her out of the frozen waters for a time. She would lie back, and watch the sky for familiar stars, and wait until the time when she could plot a course for home. It would have to be enough, for now.


	4. Chapter 4

_Dearest Randvi,_

_Morning in Wincestre is an ugly, impatient thing, filled always with the ringing of bells. There is no corner of a dream where they would not find me, and every day it makes me miss the sounds of Ravensthorpe. Nonetheless, morning comes here just the same as it has everywhere._

_I miss you._

_I’ll put in writing what I have not yet been able to think to myself. I don’t understand why Sigurd has done this. He hungers for a strange new dream, and I can’t help but wish that he didn’t. Did he think I would stop him? Or did he truly believe he was doing what was necessary for everyone’s safety? Your words sit heavy on my chest some mornings, and I think too often of the sleepless nights that plagued you those first months in Fornburg. I am sorry that I never thought of what you were giving up, when you came to be with us. I’m sorrier that I know Sigurd did not, either._

_I miss you._

_I am doing good work here at least. I do not want to explain it all just now, but I have found a chance to strike at the Order, and I intend to take it. I will be the knife in their gut, in this city where they might think themselves unreachable._

_I miss you._

Eivor sighed, reaching a hand up to scratch at the back of Synin’s neck. Three days now, she had been trying to find the right words to send back to Ravensthorpe, and three days she had gone to sleep exhausted and heavy-hearted with the thought of everything she didn’t know how to say.

She’d given up addressing Sigurd after the first night. There was too much that still hurt between them, too much she didn’t understand. Word from her could be a balm to him, or it could be stinging nettle. Eivor was not even sure which she preferred. At once she was angry, apologetic, hurt, and aching to understand. She knew Sigurd. He could be vain and cruel, selfish and flighty, fickle with his love. She knew these things about him. But she also knew his passion for life, and the depths of his kindness. For as long as she could remember, they had kept these things in balance between them. But now she was far from him, her heart still bruised and aching, still carrying the guilt of her love for Randvi and her doubts in him. There were no words for that, at least not any that could live on parchment. Their conversation would come, but not like that.

So her thoughts and her words had drifted to Randvi. When Eivor had written Randvi in the past, it came easily as breathing. Everything she tried to write now had a shadow of some other fear inside it. That Sigurd would find out, and in finding out would realize the truth of what lay between Eivor and his wife. That Randvi would see Eivor’s choice to write to her, rather than Sigurd, as a step too far, a declaration too bold. 

The only real truth she could pull out of herself was the one that sprung from her quill time and time again. Every letter, every line, every thought: I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

Eivor sighed, setting aside the letter and turning her mind towards other matters. The work of eliminating the Order, at least, was free of the other doubts that plagued her. It was not clean work, but it was the kind that her hands knew well. So she let her hands guide her, as she spread a map of Wincestre on the table, weighing down the corner and letting her fingers trace over the lines of walls and roads.

The children knew something. She and Goodwin had been agreed on that, as well as the probability of their other target being one of his fellow reeves. Eivor had been taken by surprise with how quickly he fell in line with her beliefs — the ones that involved tracking down the Order, at least. She was hesitantly grateful for his help, figuring even a Christian was better than nothing in a den of vipers. For his part, Goodwin seemed happy to help, and even open to continuing the strange little friendship they had struck up while he had been keeping tabs on her those first days in the city.

They were very similar, in some ways. Both hard workers, both loyal to their people. _To your masters_ , a bitter voice tried to clarify, but Eivor clenched and unclenched her fist on the table in front of her, and did her best not to linger. Goodwin. They both appreciated a drink, and a moment of peace, and the chance to watch the world move around them. They both fought well, though she thought if it ever came to it, he wouldn’t be able to match her. He was a good person to go into this battle beside. In another world, Eivor thought she might have even sought his allegiance.

In this world, however, she had made herself content dividing the two names they had between themselves. The Gallows and the Quill - a reeve and a teacher, of some sort. And the Seax, who remained an unknown for the time being. No matter though. The Order’s strict obedience and love for structure was also the easiest weakness for her to exploit. Following the chain back to the Seax wouldn’t be hard, once they identified his lackeys. Goodwin had been digging into the Gallows, which left Eivor with the work of identifying the Quill. 

Tracing her eyes down the map in front of her, Eivor drummed her fingers and wondered if he didn’t have the easier job. A reeve could do a great deal of harm, and pass a great many things off as officially sanctioned, but they did have to pass them off. The Quill was under no such restriction. All across town, Eivor had gathered stories of children going missing, or going quiet. It had been happening for months, and because they were without family, no one but the children themselves seemed to have noticed. 

To make matters worse, Eivor couldn’t help but worry that some of them were lying to her. The Quill had fashioned themself as something of a teacher, after all. How many hearts had their words already seeped into? How many — once missing, once taken, once victims — might come to think of these Order teachings as a savior? Children in a world like this one needed something to hold on to. Without family, without real friends… Why shouldn’t they look to someone who told them that everyone had a place where they belonged? Sometimes a cage could feel like the only safe place to sleep.

This, too, Eivor thought to herself with a bitter laugh, was probably best not to linger on.

There was a girl that Eivor had caught watching her a few times the day before. She’d start there, tomorrow morning. Eivor had found that, generally speaking, people who watched her so keenly either wanted help or wanted her to stay out of their business. Eivor could make use of both.

* * *

The Quill died running. It was an ugly, public death, and not one Eivor found any honor in. She didn’t bother disposing of the body, just stripped it of any important items as quickly as possible and slipped away. Pulling her hood down low and keeping her eyes to the ground, she did her best to get lost in the chaos of frightened bystanders. 

The Order medallion was warm in her pocket, and Eivor traced over its pattern with one finger as she walked on, head down and ears closed to the shouting behind her. She hadn’t thought twice before grabbing it from where it had fallen near the body, but it seemed odd to her now. It was Hytham who had asked her to collect the medallions. They could serve as proof for Aelfred, too, but that wasn’t why she had grabbed it. Besides, the note she had found on the body would do well enough for that. No, she had taken it for Hytham, as with every time before.

Eivor wondered what Hytham would have made of the Quill. It was a hard thing for her to understand sometimes, how some members of the Order could be so steadfast in their beliefs, while others were merely callous and cruel and hungry for power. Many things could move the heart, she knew that well enough, but for them to all serve the same cause seemed almost naive. Was the Quill lying to herself about what truth she worked for, or merely lying to herself about why she sought it? Hytham had told her that the Hidden Ones worked for freedom. That was what the Quill had claimed she found with the Order, was it not?

Crouching in front of the entrance to the Quill’s tunnels, for a moment, the answer made itself clear. She could hear the muffled whispers of the children in the passage beyond, cold and still too afraid to move, even with their captors dead. Why was it that so often those who had been hurt only saw a path to freedom by hurting others? _A freedom forged of other’s bondage is no freedom at all,_ she thought, her hand lingering for a moment on the cool stone.

 _Freedom is freedom._ The voice spoke crisply, as if leaning in close over her shoulder. _There is no line between the freedom we are given and the freedom we take. The same sky above. The same ground below. The only difference is if you live to feel the dirt under your fingers, or if you choke beneath it._

Mist curled around Eivor’s feet, but she did not give it leave to overtake her vision. _I have buried friends,_ she thought, and she tasted the ash of a funeral pyre thick in her throat. _They stand with me still. I give them life again when I tell their stories. No one will mourn that woman. She will be remembered only in the scars she left behind._

_Scars change the world in the image of those who left them. Stories are nothing but words taken by the wind, gone the moment they leave your mouth._

“Scars,” Eivor muttered to the wind as she ducked inside the tunnel, “fade with time. And those that don’t just make for better stories.”

Just as it had been the first time, the children did not react to Eivor’s presence with either joy or fear. They watched her with suspicion, but not mistrust. What else did they have to give? She walked slowly to the closest one, a young boy who had his knees pulled close against his chest, as if his body was a thing make of wood and string that he must hold together himself. Kneeling, Eivor extended one hand to him, the Quill’s medallion bright on her palm. “Do you know what this is?”

He nodded, still not speaking, looking between her and the symbol, as if he wasn’t sure what it meant. Another boy crept forward on his hands and knees, eyes wide. “That belongs to Miss Hilda, doesn’t it?”

“It belonged to Miss Hilda,” Eivor clarified. “But she is gone now.”

The first boy spoke up. “Where’d she go?”

The other children were all listening now. Some looked at her openly, while others stared at the ground but leaned in, heads tilted to hear the conversation. “She went to the place all cowards like her go. A place where she cannot hurt you any more.”

One of the girls who had been pretending not to listen laughed at that, a child’s cruel laugh. “Shows what you know. Eadgar’s a bigger coward than anyone. Hear that Eadgar? I bet wherever she is, the Quill is going to find you and feed you to the rats.”

The child huddled in front of Eivor, of course, immediately started to cry.

“See!” The girl stuck out her tongue, and Eivor held herself very still, remembering all the cruel and terrible things she had once shouted at other children. She couldn’t hold the girl to blame for this.

Instead, she focused on Eadgar, who was rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand, smearing dirt and snot across his face. “Eadgar?”

He didn’t respond, folding in on himself. The rest of the children were quiet, even the girl, and for a moment all that could be heard was the skittering of rats and the sound of his sniffling.

“You know, Eadgar, I once thought that I belonged in the place all cowards go.”

He spared her a quick glance, a flicker of curiosity pausing his tears. “You did?”

“I did. I was about your age, and I…” Eivor forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat, “I had been left behind with a great dishonor to bear. I felt like my name was too heavy to carry.”

The other boy, who had first identified the medallion, spoke up again. “How can a name be heavy?”

“Oh, in all sorts of ways. When it reminds you of something you’ve lost, or someone who hurt you. When it ties you to something you want to leave behind. For me, it was like the anchor of a great ship, heavy with dishonor that kept me bound to the harbor of my home. We Norse, we love to sail the whale-roads of our homeland. It would be no life, to be weighed down forever like that.”

Eadgar was watching her truly now, though he still rubbed at his nose. Under his attentive gaze, she continued.

“But I had a friend who saw things more clearly than I did. He told me I could earn my honor back. That the weight did not have to be an anchor holding me down. Instead, it could drive me onward, towards glory and victory. It made me a warrior.”

Moving slowly, both palms up as if she was approaching a wary cat, Eivor leaned forward, placing the medallion in Eadgar’s lap. “This belonged to the Quill. And now you hold it in your hands. Maybe it feels as cold as ice, and will freeze you in place. Or maybe it burns like fire, and will shine a light bright enough to cut through the mists of Helheim. What do you think?”

He looked down at it for a moment, reaching out with one finger to touch it, as if he really did think it might burn him, or freeze him solid. “It feels warm.”

Eivor rocked back on her heels, smiling and throwing her arms wide. “As it should! That is the spark of courage, little drengr.” She knew he might not recognize the word, but she spoke it nonetheless, letting it echo down the dark passageways. “It is a warmth that will never leave you, because it is your heart.”

Eadgar did not say anything, but just continued to stare at the medallion with a sort of awe. Eivor stood. “Now, all of you. This place is not safe, and there is no one now who will stop you from leaving it. Will you come with me?”

Not all of them were impressed with her speech. Several of them didn’t even seem happy at the prospect of leaving. But they did leave, all of them, even the girl who had laughed at Eadgar.

She knew she had no real power to promise it, but Eivor swore to herself that she would hold Aelfred accountable to the future care of this children or see him bleed out on the steps of his church. She gave them what food she had, and told them to find her tomorrow outside the Old Minster.

Not all of them would come. She knew that. But maybe some would. And they’d all have a chance to make their own lives, at least. It wasn’t for nothing.

Eadgar clutched something close to his chest as he hurried off, stopping only briefly as he stepped out into the open street and the breeze caught as his hair, pulling his gaze up towards a sky washed in stars. The feeling that squeezed Eivor’s chest when he smiled was not happiness, but it was something close to it. 

Only once he was out of sight did she let herself cry.


End file.
